


Whispered Pursuit

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, POV Rotating, Slow Burn, Sylvain's Bullshit Internal Monologue, idiots to lovers, sylvain starts out a real shithead in this heads up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Felix and Sylvain get lost in the woods for like, a really long time (ABANDONED)





	1. Perfect

"This... Okay, this is perfect," Ingrid decides, standing in front of a wide wooden building, "we can stay here for the night, maybe two if we need it."

Ashe's shoulders relax and he breathes a sigh of relief. Poor kid. "I don't know about you all, but I'm looking forward to a proper bed," he says in his ever optimistic tone.

Sylvain can't help but think, looking up and down the width of the building, that a _proper bed_ might be a bit generous for what this place has to offer. Several boards are rotting off the exterior from neglect and the sign — well, what used to be the sign — is completely unreadable, sun bleached and peeling, hanging despondently above the door. If a light weren't shining through the windows and laughter couldn't be heard from inside he would assume this was a thieves' hideout, or possibly the entrance to hell.

This, apparently, doesn't bother anybody else.

"Whatever," Felix grumbles in ardent agreement with no survival instincts whatsoever. That's fine. This is fine.

His friends push through the front door one-by-one with Sylvain taking up the rear. He considers sleeping outside as his eyes adjust to the dim light and he's able to take in the slight sheen on the walls and the dead moths in the corners because if this is how they maintain their front-of-house he doesn't want to _begin_ to imagine what he'll find under the beds or in the kitchens. He eyes Ingrid, the only one out of his travelling buddies with any standards, but she doesn't seem to notice and that might be deliberate. Smart. Perhaps if he can drink himself into a stupor he'll be able to not notice, too.

Ashe and Ingrid make their way to the bar to speak to a middle-aged woman who could absolutely kick Sylvain's ass while Sylvain and Felix hover by the door. Sylvain keeps a watchful eye on the two — giving the bartender one of his famous lady-killing smiles when she looks his way — and lightly jabs Felix with his elbow. Felix, who's arms are crossed and eyes are closed, grunts.

"Odds we'll be murdered in our sleep?" he asks just loudly enough to be heard.

"Ten for ten if you keep touching me," Felix growls. Sylvain smirks and throws an arm over his shoulder.

"I like those odds," he says, earning a glare from Felix he refers to as his _what-the-fuck-you-absolute-freak_ glare.

Ashe and Ingrid return before Felix can make another threat on his life. He shakes Sylvain's arm off as they approach.

"Great news, they have enough beds," Ingrid says, "And they have a job for us. Apparently a beast has been making travel difficult a bit south of here, so we'll be taking care of that for a bit of gold."

Gold has been weighing heavy on them as of late; House Galatea doesn't have much gold to speak of, Felix doesn't want to ask Rodrigue for anything, and if anyone asks, House Gautier is much too far to travel to and from for a bit of coin. He can see Felix relax a smidge at the edge of his vision.

"Good," Felix says tersely. Sylvain counts to three before saying anything else.

"That's great!" he says. It's not entirely disingenuous. "I'm looking forward to it. Say, I wouldn't say no to a drink or two before bed. What do you think?"

Felix growls and Ingrid looks unsure but Ashe, sweet Ashe, nods fervently.

"Yes, let's sit and relax for awhile!" he gestures to a table nearby. It's grimy, doubling the number of drinks Sylvain will need to get through the night.

This, again, doesn't bother anybody else. Sylvain holds back a full-body cringe and sits down, careful not to touch the table. Ingrid and Ashe both lean on their elbows and Felix sets his whole ass hand down and Sylvain wonders if it'll leave any residue behind. 

"I wonder if they serve food," Ingrid says.

"Typical," Felix says under his breath. Ingrid glares and Sylvain snorts.

"As if you're not hungry," she says, offended.

Ashe cuts Felix off before he can respond. "They must have food! I'll ask — and I'll order drinks while I'm there."

Ashe smiles in a bright and genuine way that Sylvain tries to commit to memory to improve his own, and shutting up any further argument from Felix, who grumbles and looks at his own hand.

"Great! I'll be right back," he says before walking to the bar.

"Ah, the perfect man," Sylvain sighs dreamily once Ashe is out of range.

Ingrid rolls her eyes. "You know, you could copy some of his habits. Like how he doesn't make unnecessary trouble, is kind to others..."

Sylvain holds a hand to his heart in mock shock. "Ingrid! I've been following Ashe's example this whole time! Why, just the other day I told Felix he was my hero."

"Shut the _hell_ up," Felix says predictably.

"Let me tell you the story of Felix, the knight — "

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"He believed in friendship and love! Chivalrous to the core — "

"I'm going to hit you."

Ingrid tries desperately to hold her laughter behind her fist, ultimately failing when Sylvain mindlessly rests his elbow on the table and recoils back.

"You two would make excellent street performers," she says between giggles. Felix's arm twitches toward his sword.

"I'm ba — oh, my, what's happened?" Ashe says, saving Ingrid's life.

"Ingrid, here, was just telling us about her death wish," Sylvain explains.

"Oh my! Well I do hate to interrupt, but I put in an order for drinks and dinner. The, ah, the menu isn't very robust."

"You've given Ingrid a reason to live," Sylvain says at the same time Ingrid says "Thank you."

She glares. He grins.

"Stop flirting right in front of me," Felix says, completely deadpan, pulling a groan from Ingrid and widening Sylvain's grin.

"How can I flirt with you if I can't do it in front of you?" Sylvain pouts. Felix scowls. Ingrid smirks. Ashe looks like he believes there's good left in the world. The bartender sets drinks in front of them.

And, oh boy, that gets the night started.

* * *

There's many things Sylvain is thankful for. One of those things being his friends' low alcohol tolerances.

The first two years after Garreg Mach fell were too chaotic for leisure, with the western territories falling to the empire immediately, opening the eastern territories to attack. Ashe had fled to Galatea with his siblings mere months into the war and helped Ingrid defend her territory. They were the first to hear rumors of a beast slaughtering imperial troops.

_They say the bodies left behind are destroyed, brutally killed and torn apart,_ Ingrid had written, _Merchants haven't seen anything and I don't have the troops to spare to investigate._

Not long after rumors reached Fraldarius and spread north into Gautier. Gilbert travelled to each of their houses himself to share his suspicions. It was incredible, two years after Dimitri's execution and he may be alive.

That was it, really. The four of them ensured their houses could manage without them and set off, following rumors from village to town to village. The attacks were scattered, though, and completely unpredictable. Sylvain puzzled over the movement for _months_ before he finally conceded there was no path, no plan; if this thing really was Dimitri, then Dimitri had gone mad.

Despite all this shit, all the stress and the pain and the disappointment, Sylvain was still the only one to drink regularly, and the only one to regularly drink a lot.

"Hey, Ingrid, you okay?" Sylvain asks over his nearly finished plate. She groans.

"I ate too much," she says. She's leaning back in her chair, eyes partway closed, bright pink and grimacing. "I need... I need to digest."

Sylvain nods knowingly and checks on the next one in line. "Ashe, you look like you're having a good time."

Ashe, also pink, giggles even louder than he had been before. "I'm glad we — we get to relax like this," he says, stumbling over his words in his fit.

Sylvain nods knowingly and turns to the last person in the group, getting a mouthful of hair in the process. "Hey, Felix, are you asleep?"

Felix grunts and doesn't move from Sylvain's shoulder.

"If you're gonna fall asleep I'm gonna bring you to bed," Sylvain warns.

Felix groans and slowly, reluctantly sits up. He blinks around blearily. "I'm up."

Sylvain nods knowingly and doesn't take his eyes off Felix.

"Stop fucking looking at me."

"Oookay."

His eyes wander around the inn, taking note of the drunks passed out and the mercenaries buying rounds. It's not crowded by any means, but given the dilapidated state of the building he's surprised there's more than two people at all. The bartender is leaning over to speak to a blushing woman in leather armor. His eye catches on some movement to the left and he watches as a door behind the bar swings open to reveal —

"Oh! Hel_lo!"_

Sylvain's eyes follow the graceful movement of a short woman with blonde curls. She must be heading out for the night. She seems to be in a good mood.

She glances his way. He winks. She smiles and he feels a familiar thrill.

Women are just... they're ethereal. And they're _fun._ Ingrid would say his tactical mind is wasted on mind games, and she might be right, but he _loves_ the build up and the subsequent crash. The women love it, too, when they don't misunderstand the nature of the game. It's a thrill he chases, shamelessly and enthusiastically.

"I'll be back later," he says to a protesting Ingrid. He pushes himself up from the table and makes his way to the bar, mere steps away from Miss Blonde Curls.

* * *

"Oh, I swear," hisses Ingrid, "I am _not_ cleaning up this mess. The cook? Really?"

Felix scowls over his drink.

"At least it's not the bartender," Ashe snickers. Felix wishes Sylvain had gone for the bartender, if only to see him punched square in the jaw. Ingrid doesn't share this sentiment.

"Ugh, could you imagine?" she groans.

"I can imagine Sylvain missing a few teeth," Felix says.

Over at the bar Felix can see Sylvain nodding along to whatever the cook is saying, leaning towards her, smiling. It makes his stomach turn. It was annoying when they were children and Sylvain was practicing pickup lines on Ingrid's grandmother and it's disgusting now. The world's ending around them and Sylvain's still trying to crawl up every skirt that passes.

"Damn, _you_ should lecture him next time," Ingrid says and Felix realizes he said that out loud.

"I don't have that kind of time," he says before he drinks the rest of his drink. It's, frankly, gross. Such is war.

"No, no, I'm happy to take a day off for this," Ingrid says, grinning.

"Absolutely not — ugh, seriously?" Felix stares, dumbfounded, watching as Sylvain follows the cook back through the door she came from. Ashe bursts into open laughter.

"Wow!" is all he says.

"Wow, indeed," Ingrid mutters.

"Wow," Felix breathes. Wow, Felix feels, and not in a good way. "This fucking moron. What the hell?"

"Are you seriously surprised?" Ingrid asks.

"No, I'm pissed," Felix says, "I'm fucking. Fuck this."

"Felix — "

Felix does not Felix. Felix stands sharply, sees black for a moment until his blood returns to his brain, and then he realizes how drunk he is and gets more pissed. Fuck.

"I'm taking a walk," he says. Ingrid reaches out a hand but he's much too fast. He's Felix fuckin' Fraldarius and he's fast and he's taking a fuckin' walk. The room moves around him and the walk to the door is long. His feet can't hit the ground and the floor feels like he's at sea but he makes it, goes outside, and looks around.

It's cold. It feels good on his warm skin. He breathes out and a cloud of air dissipates toward the sky, swirling around with the snow that's started falling, landing on his face and his shoulders. He lifts his arm and looks at a snowflake on his sleeve. It's a snowflake. He looks around and sure enough the building is still on a road to nowhere. He's getting antsy looking at nothing. He checks his hip. He has his sword, good. He'll train. He'll train until he's ready to sleep, and then he'll sleep and he won't think about Sylvain's aggravating habits and he won't think about why he thinks about Sylvain so much.

He steps off the road. His boot crunches into a fine layer of snow and ice and _shit_ this is nostalgic. Memories of marching with the Blue Lions and their professor come flooding back to him for the first time in years. He thinks of the training, the dining hall, the training, the sauna, the training...

Perfect. This spot should be perfect.

He assumes training stance and begins his warmups. He can tell he's sloppy but he can't seem to get his feet in the right spot and his hands don't quite go where he wants. He grumbles to himself about doing better and tries again.

When he hears his name being called he scowls and moves to a clear spot deeper in the forest. Why can't anyone leave him the _fuck_ alone?

* * *

"Sylvain!"

Sylvain rolls his eyes, ignoring Ingrid's yelling and giving all his attention to Miss Blonde Curls who has been so kind as to give all her attention to _him._

"Sylvain! Now!"

"Don't pay her any mind," he whispers into Miss Blonde Curls' ear. Miss Blonde Curls whimpers and grinds harder against his hand.

"I swear, Sylvain, I know you're back there!" her voice echoes around the cookware and off the floor, "Felix just ran off into the damn woods and I can't find him!"

"Huh?" Sylvain pauses. Miss Blonde Curls squeezes his arm and he doesn't pay any attention.

_"You_ need to go get him!"

"Shit," he hisses. Perhaps his friends' low alcohol tolerance wasn't so funny. "Okay, yeah, hold on."

He mouths _sorry!_ at Miss Blonde Curls but offers her no other consolation. She looks pissed but that's not important. He's sure to wipe his hand on his pants and straighten his hair before facing Ingrid and, by the time he's back in the main room in front of her, he looks positively presentable.

"About time," she says, rolling her eyes. Sylvain shrugs. "He walked off maybe five minutes ago, but I'm too drunk to walk around the woods at night looking for him. You know how he is."

Sylvain nods. He does, indeed, know how Felix is.

And now he knows a way to sleep somewhere that's _not here_ without being a dick about it.

"I'd better bring a tent and supplies," he says, making a show of reluctance, "If he's deep in there or passed out I need to have a plan, you know?"

Ingrid nods. "That's... actually a good idea, Sylvain."

"I'm full of those."

She stares at him in a silent dare for him to continue. He does not.

"Well?!"

"Right!" Sylvain leaps into action, reaching around Ashe to pack a basic overnight bag; tent, bedrolls, furs, rations, lantern, canteens, change of underwear —

"How are you going to carry all that?" Ashe asks him, amazed.

"Don't you worry about me," Sylvain winks, "I got it taken care of."

Ashe smiles. What a guy.

"Do you really need all that?" Ingrid asks.

"Nope!" Sylvain grins at his two friends, "but maybe I want it!"

Ingrid closes her eyes. Ashe leans his head on the sticky table. Sylvain decides to leave before he openly grimaces.

"I'll be back by tomorrow!" he calls over his shoulder.


	2. Stupid

_I'll be back by tomorrow!_

What a stupid thing to say.

The more Sylvain sobers up the more he realizes he's an idiot. Here he is, shouting for Felix in the dead of night, in the woods where a confirmed demonic beast lives just to the south — not that he knows which way is south because, you know, it's snowing and the stars are covered by clouds. The only direction he can follow right now is the steady path of trees that Felix stabbed and, in the occasional clearing, footprints that are slowly being snowed over. He's getting closer, though; the footprints are getting clearer and he can hear the faint echo of steel on wood.

"Felix!" he yells. The steel-on-wood sound stops, followed by silence.

Best case: Felix is waiting for him where he stands.

Worst case: Felix is still avoiding him, drunk in the woods, and has somehow managed to quiet his footsteps despite being drunk enough to run into an unfamiliar forest and stab trees.

Sylvain likes his odds.

"Felix!"

"What?!" comes Felix's sharp reply.

"Where are you?"

"I'm right here!"

That doesn't help but Sylvain can work with it.

"What are you doing?" Sylvain yells.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?!"

Sylvain moves as quickly towards Felix's voice as he can with it echoing off the trees. "Are you stabbing a tree?" he guesses.

"I'm _training,_ moron, but you wouldn't know what that looks like, would you?"

A few more steps. "I think you've had a bit much to drink to be swinging a sword around."

"I'm not even drunk!" Felix shouts. There's a rustling sound and a flash of steel and Felix is pointing his sword at Sylvain's throat.

"Hah! Found you."

Sylvain does not voice how Felix's sword isn't actually pointing at him. It's, frankly, not his problem and definitely preferable to it being pointed _in_ him.

"Fool," Felix mutters. He sheathes his sword and looks around, seemingly realizing he's in the woods. Sylvain waits for him to say something.

And waits.

And waits.

"So we're gonna have to make camp," Sylvain concedes in defeat. "You wandered pretty far in here, I don't actually know where we are."

_"You don't know where we are?!"_

"I followed you!"

"Well _I_ don't know where we are!"

Sylvain smiles wryly. Big fucking surprise. "Look, I brought camping stuff," he turns and gestures to the massive pack over his shoulders, "so we can just set up a tent and drink some water. In the morning it'll be easier to navigate, provided the cloud cover isn't too bad."

Felix crosses his arms. "And how many tents did you bring?"

"Uh, one?"

"Why did you only bring _one?!"_

"Well, you brought zero, so..."

"Augh!" Felix screams, because it's the tree's fault or the snow's fault or Sylvain's fault for his poor planning. "I just wanted to get out of that fucking building! Why did you have to follow me?!"

"Well," Sylvain says gently, "I was worried you'd freeze to death since you didn't bring a tent."

"So you knew I didn't have a tent and you only brought one, anyway."

"I — yeah?"

Sylvain isn't sure what the big deal is. This won't be the first time they share a tent, and it won't be the last.

"Sylvain Gautier," Felix's tone is low and dangerous, "If you want someone to warm your tent you should go back to the cook. I am _not_ playing your games."

"Who said anything about games?"

"You're _always_ playing games!" Felix is yelling now, seemingly unconcerned with anything overhearing. "You play games with every girl you pass, you played your game with the cook, and now you're trying to play games with _me!"_

"All I wanted was to get you out of the cold!" _And get out of the inn,_ he adds silently. "I'm not playing games with you. You know I don't play games with my friends."

Felix narrows his eyes. "That's what you always say."

"I... always say I'm trying to rescue girls from the cold?"

"Shut u — you know what I mean!"

Sylvain shrugs. "I really don't. When have I ever played games with you?"

"Fuck you!"

"Hey, rude, fuck you!"

"No, _fuck you!"_

"Okay, yeah, fuck me," Sylvain agrees, "Calm down and let's set up camp, it's already late and the snow isn't gonna get any lighter."

"What? How late is it?!"

"Well, I don't see the sun," Sylvain gestures to the dark sky, "and I didn't see the sun when we got to the inn. We're hours past dusk by now, I wouldn't be surprised if it was after midnight."

Felix's shoulders sag and there's an uncharacteristic look of defeat that Sylvain is sure he wouldn't see if Felix were sober.

"Oh," is all he says.

"Chin up, buddy," Sylvain decides to take his chances and lightly elbows Felix, who doesn't immediately stab him. "Nothing wrong with sleeping outside another night. Help me out with this tent, would you?"

Felix grumbles in assent and Sylvain's heart soars in a way that's entirely unwarranted but not unpleasant. He makes a mental note to consider what _that_ might mean when he's a little more sober and gets to work setting out their supplies and setting up the tent in a space where almost no snow has made it through the tree branches and to the ground. Felix is no help at all and that's for the best.

"Okay!" he says as he sets out bedrolls, furs, and blankets. "Hop in, Felix, this should be fine for the night."

He ushers Felix in first and follows behind. Once the tent is sealed from the elements he looks over and, having judged Felix being in a relatively good mood, decides to ask.

"Hey, uh," Sylvain rubs the back of his neck and finds it's just as warm as his face, "can you help me get some of this armor off? It's just that some of the buckles are hard to reach and — "

"Ugh, _fine,"_ Felix agrees much quicker than he was expecting and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

"Uh, great! Thanks."

Felix says nothing. He waits for Sylvain to take the lead, pointing out the straps and fasteners he can't reach, and he does what Sylvain assumes is his best with clumsy and shaking hands. It takes awhile and Sylvain doesn't like the way it's piled to the side of the tent without a stand but it's better than leaving it outside, so he turns the other way and pretends it's not there. Instead of his armor, he comes face-to-face with Felix, a much more welcome sight.

"Thanks for camping with me," Sylvain jokes.

Felix scoffs. "Dumbass."

"Aw, in Felix that means you love me!"

Felix turns to face the other way. "You drive me fucking insane," he says, voice quiet as he succumbs to sleep.

Sylvain allows himself a self-indulgent smile while Felix isn't looking. He has no _idea_ how badly he drives Sylvain crazy.

* * *

Felix wakes up slowly and painfully. His own heartbeat pounds in his head and a nearby bird song threatens to crush his skull under its weight. He's not an idiot, he knows damn well he's hungover. What he can't figure out is why he feels like there's a heavy weight pushing him into the ground.

He opens his eyes.

Oh no the _fuck_ he does _not._

Ugh, even with his eyes closed it feels like the sun is searing into him. He's never drinking with Sylvain again.

He tries to move and finds the reason he feels there's a heavy weight pushing him into the ground _because there's a heavy weight pushing him into the ground._ He tries to lift his arm. He fails. He tries to lift his torso. He fails. He tries to wiggle out from whatever has him trapped and it... groans?

_Oh no._

"Get off," he tries to speak in a way that doesn't hurt his head and fails, grimacing at his own words.

The highly suspicious groaning lump weighing him down pulls him closer and he can feel its warmth against his back and its breath against his neck. He's hot. Sweating even, which, if his memory of falling asleep in a tent in the snow in the woods is correct, could be _actually deadly._ Come to think of it, there are far too many ways he could die right now: hypothermia, heat stroke, dehydration if this hangover is anything to go by, getting crushed to death, being stabbed by an enemy sword, a heart attack. That's five. Five! He's condemned to a terrible heat death in hell if something doesn't change. He addresses the suspicious groaning lump, determined to take _heat stroke_ and _crushed to death_ and _heart attack_ off the risk list.

"Sylvain, I said get the _fuck_ off."

"Just a couple more minutes," Sylvain the groaning lump groans.

"You're making me _sweaty."_

"That's what she said." His disgusting and tasteless response is instinctual at this point and the feeling of the words against his neck is downright vulgar.

"Don't say that with your arms around me, dickhead."

"Hm?" Sylvain seems to be waking up more. Good.

"Off."

"Hm." Sylvain relaxes against him. Bad.

"Don't fucking fall back asleep! Get up!"

"Don't wanna."

"Sylvain, I swear, we're in the middle of the damn woods during a war. Alone. If we stay here we're going to be stabbed through the tent and then we'll die."

"You worry too much," Sylvain's lips lightly brush against the back of his neck as he speaks. Felix freezes.

This is _not_ what he wants to deal with today. He left his useless crush for his friend in the past, abandoned before the war, rotting in the halls of Garreg Mach along with what remains, left untouched for three years until this asshole disturbed it.

He has to fix this.

He pulls a spark of magic into his hand, just a small crackle of lightning, carefully reaches over his own shoulder, and rubs it on Sylvain's cheek.

"Ow! Hey, what the fuck!"

"Ugh, finally." Felix sits up, free from a fate of Death By Wide Shoulders as Sylvain rubs his face and tries to fix his hair that's now standing on end. "Should've gotten up sooner."

"You wound me, Felix," Sylvain says with an exaggerated pout. Felix rolls his eyes and chooses not to respond.

"Get your armor on. We're leaving."

Sylvain makes a whole show of stretching and filling up the tent while Felix tries very hard to pointedly ignore him. Sylvain has a lot of fun deliberately-on-accident hitting Felix in the head while doing increasingly acrobatic stretches and must be some kind of masochist with the way he takes Felix's increasingly violent punching. When he finally stops to put on his armor he's just as annoying about it. Felix is almost impressed by how irritating Sylvain can be without opening his mouth, but then he opens it and makes everything weird.

"Sorry I got up in your space while I was sleeping, by the way," Sylvain says. He almost seems sheepish.

"I don't care," Felix lies.

"Ah," Sylvain pretends to believe him.

The tent is quiet and the air is thick. Felix clears his throat.

"Well, let's go," he says and gestures to the tent flap.

Sylvain nods and pushes the flap to the outside world open and freezes, blocking Felix's exit and view. He tries to lean around him but Sylvain has gotten so fucking _big_ and the tent flap is so _small_ that all he sees is the winter sun haloing around Sylvain's shoulders and hair.

"What?" he snaps.

"Uh," Sylvain glances over his shoulder back at Felix, "We have a bit of a situation."

Felix decides waiting is a wasted effort and pushes Sylvain out of the way. Sylvain definitely lets himself be pushed but he's going to pretend he doesn't know. He doesn't have much time to dwell on it, anyway; once his hungover eyes painfully adjust to the blinding light his thoughts are occupied by a new, different problem.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

The tent and the small space they set up under a tree is sprinkled with a light dusting of snow, the same as the space underneath a handful of other old, massive trees.

Everywhere not covered by massive, layered branches is covered in a sheet of at least ten centimeters of snow.

"You marked your route, right?" Felix asks even though he knows the answer.

"Uh, you stabbed some trees on the way?" Sylvain offers.

"Uh-huh, on the side facing away from us, that we can't see unless we look around every single tree."

"Yep."

"Which way did you come from?"

"Yeah, I have no idea."

Felix rubs the bridge of his nose. "So what the hell do we do?"

Felix feels Sylvain shrug more than sees. "Go south, I guess? Our job was to the south."

"And which way's south?"

"Felix." Sylvain _actually_ sounds a little disappointed.

"Well fucking excuse me!"

"Well, Felix, the sun rises in the east," Sylvain points toward the lighter side of the still cloud covered sky, "which means south is that way."

"...I knew that."

"I'm sure you did," Sylvain grins, "you just needed a reminder, right?"

"Ugh." He looks back out at the snow-covered treescape. "Let's just pack up and leave. The sooner we find Ingrid and Ashe the sooner we can get paid, and the sooner we can keep looking."


	3. Proud

Felix is not a proud person.

Felix is someone always seeking improvement, pursuing an impossible standard just so he can push the limits and shatter his own expectations. Where others might call him prideful he calls himself aware of his abilities, just as he's aware of his limits. Pride welcomes complacency, and complacency welcomes death at the end of an enemy blade. So no, he is _not_ proud of his achievements, he is _not_ proud of his growth.

And he is certainly _not_ proud of himself right now.

"We fucked up bigtime," Sylvain says helpfully.

Felix chooses to not point out he's the idiot that ran into the woods on a cloudy night with no navigation tools.

"You should've brought a map," he says instead.

The two of them have been walking south for hours by now, passing a stream, several abandoned cabins and camp sites, crumbling walls covered in thick moss, and most commonly, trees. Trees with no sense of where the nearest road or village is or what direction they came from. Trees that look the same as every other tree they've passed so it feels like they're walking in circles. The forest almost seems to taunt him; its bare branches catch in his hair, its hidden roots trip his feet.

Every step reaffirms his own failures. Every misty exhale reaffirms his disappointment, in himself and his skills.

If they die out here he isn't sure how he'll live with himself.

"So, uh, I told Ingrid we'd be back today," Sylvain says, breaking the silence.

"I don't think that's happening," Felix says through gritted teeth after a pause.

"Me neither," Sylvain says. He stops walking and turns to look at Felix, who looks into the forest ahead. "We should find a place and make camp, but we're going to run out of rations pretty soon."

"Did you bring a bow?" Felix asks.

"Hah, no."

"Then focus on the problems we can solve."

There's silence. Felix refuses to look at Sylvain and refuses to walk ahead of him, so they wait. And wait. That's fine, Felix can play this game.

No he can't.

"Well, let's find a place to camp," he snaps, words all thorns and barbs.

Sylvain finally takes the first step. The snow crunches under his boot and Felix waits for him to walk several paces ahead before following.

"If we don't find a clear space before dusk we should just make camp wherever we can," Sylvain calls back. Felix grimaces at the way his voice echoes and hurries closer.

"I'm right here," Felix says, now barely two steps behind.

"Right, sorry," Sylvain humors him. "I'm sure we can find something good enough, but I'd really prefer to be closer to water."

Felix agrees.

* * *

Oh, Sylvain remembers the way his heart soared last night at Felix's simple approval. He remembers the way he woke up nearly on top of Felix, nose in his hair, lips on his neck, and he remembers how warm and _full_ he felt and how cold it felt to be apart again. He remembers Felix's clumsy hands undoing the straps on his armor and helping to tighten them in the morning with much more grace. He remembers the way the morning sun filtered through the trees, dappling Felix's skin in criss-crossing patterns of shadow, and he remembers never paying much attention before.

He's decided not to think about it.

He knows where those thoughts lead. Those thoughts lead to sparks, lead to feather light accidentally-on-purpose touches, and in this particular scenario they lead to Sylvain getting stabbed or, more importantly, losing his friend.

Silence stretches between them for hours at a time, giving Sylvain plenty of time to ignore his feelings. That's all they are: feelings. Nothing to worry about, entirely natural. He's always known Felix is hot from, like, an objective standpoint. Given the time he could take a ruler and map out his features and find the mathematical formula for the perfect ratio of the human face. Not that he's thought about it. This is purely academic.

"Hey Felix," he decides to ruin everything, "can I measure your face later?"

"What the actual _fuck_ does that even mean? What kind of a line is that?!"

"It's not a line! I told you I don't play those games with you!"

And he's not going to think about why.

"That's what you tell everyone," Felix growls.

"Point taken."

That went well.

"Next time you try to fill the silence with the weirdest possible thing you can think of I'll stab you."

"Aw, really?"

He hears the familiar sound of metal sliding against leather as Felix unsheathes his sword. He takes his last moments alive to ponder his life and whether it had any meaning. Did he make a difference? Leave the world a more beautiful place? No. Was it all worth it? No. Will he die happy? No.

He turns to face Felix, walking backwards with his arms up in surrender, and pleads for his life.

"You wouldn't kill a good-for-nothing, would you?" he pouts.

Felix narrows his eyes and levels his blade at Sylvain's throat, just under his chin. "Don't test me, Gautier."

"But you looove me!"

Felix's blade makes contact with his jaw. His face is stone cold.

Felix likes to believe his facade is his truth, as if there's no affection or anger or grief underneath his dead stare and curled lip, but Felix is a hypocrite and he knows it, deep down. For all his complaints about Sylvain's fake smile he sports his own frigid mask, hiding a depth of emotion he's held since childhood behind a carefully crafted dam of danger and distaste. But Sylvain knew Felix before the tragedy, and he knows him in his aftermath. He's as familiar with his mask as he is with the perfect measurements of his face.

That's how he knows he's right.

"You can't hide your feelings behind your sword forever, Fraldarius!"

"Whatever you think you see, Sylvain, it's just a sword."

"I think the sword's just a metaphor!"

Felix applies a feather-light pressure to the sword. Sylvain feels a pinprick of pain where the blade meets his skin. Sylvain thanks everything above that his sense of self preservation is nonexistant and his sense of how to have a good time is incredible.

"I think," his voice drops in time with Felix's eyebrows, "Your sword is like your d — "

"Do not, under _any circumstances,_ finish that question," Felix snaps as he sheathes his sword. "Fuck, the war really screwed with your brain if you're not scared of a sword against your throat."

Sylvain shrugs. "I've seen much scarier things than your sword in the last three years."

"You realize most people who see my sword at their throat _die,_ yes?"

"Ah, but I'm not most people! I'm _special."_

"When you finally die it will be by my hand."

Sylvain finally turns back around. He's amazed he didn't hit anything. "Damn, so I won't die until you're ready to die? I'm golden."

If Felix responds he doesn't hear it. Or see it, more likely. Felix has this habit that's as annoying as it is endearing, where he thinks his answer really, really loud, and assumes everyone else can hear his thoughts. Sylvain can, of course. They never have misunderstandings or miscommunications because Sylvain can read Felix's mind and everything's perfect as a plum.

Sylvain stays silent and time passes them by as they pass more trees and boulders. They should've gone east or west, but at this point Sylvain isn't willing to change course and potentially miss a town or a river just out of sight. It gets darker. The clouds above reflect pinks and oranges and purples as the sun peaks out at the horizon they can't see, soon to be extinguished for the night along with Sylvain's hopes of finding civilization and maybe a clean inn. He's reminiscing about the bed and breakfast they stayed in northern Charon when Felix tugs on his arm.

"Do you hear that?" Felix asks.

Sylvain freezes. He waits.

And waits.

"Hear what?" he whispers.

"Years of being loud as hell has dulled your hearing," Felix says with no regard to his volume.

"Wh-what do you hear? Footsteps? A bear? You're not being very inconspicuous, mister speaking voice."

"Idiot, I can hear _running water."_

Sylvain perks up. "What? Where?"

"I think it's that way." Sylvain turns to see Felix pointing to the right.

"Fuck, I hope you're right," he says. He mentally catalogues _west_ and walks in the direction Felix is pointing. Felix follows shortly behind.

They walk for several minutes before Sylvain hears the quiet sound of water running over shallow stones. Fuck, he could _kiss_ Felix and his weirdly powerful ears.

"Don't ever doubt me again."

"Never! Your word is my gospel," Sylvain says, laughing. This tiny victory has left him feeling almost giddy. His pace quickens and the trees stop, revealing a shallow river and a wide, rocky shore. Sylvain whistles.

"Shut up," Felix says preemptively.

Sylvain shuts up.

Sylvain shuts up and sits down to unpack their bag of supplies. Felix sits across from him and separates out the parts for the tent.

"We uh, we're gonna have to send a messenger to Galatea whenever we find a town," Sylvain snakes a pole through the tent's canvas as he speaks.

"We're gonna have to _eat,"_ Felix responds, "Then we need rations, a map, _clothes,_ unless you happened to pack some that I'm not aware of. All of that costs gold, and you brought how much?"

Sylvain pats the pocket where he keeps his gold pouch. It's as light as he remembers.

"Not a lot."

Felix closes his eyes. "Sending a message costs _money,_ Sylvain."

"Maybe we could send a messenger to Rodrigue and ask him to pay for it."

"What? Will you pull your name and title? Sylvain Gautier is not known for being an upstanding or loyal man."

Sylvain pretends to be hurt to hide the fact that he's a little hurt. "Felix Fraldarius! How could you say such things?"

"You have nobody to blame but yourself."

"Okay, pull _your_ name and title! The Fraldarius heir has a reputation for being charitable and kind, after all."

Felix scoffs and Sylvain wins. Any previously hurt feelings are restored with his victory.

"Hurry up and finish setting this up," Felix snaps. Another win. "We don't have all night."

"Yes, sir!" Sylvain tosses a handful of tent stakes to Felix and they work around the tent. The shore is rocky with no real great place to set up their tent but it's flat and clear, and their bedrolls are decent enough that it'll be tolerable. It's quick work; a few minutes later the tent is up and their belongings have been tossed inside.

Felix stands back and folds his arms. "There, was that so difficult?"

"Not with you," Sylvain bats his eyes. Felix resolutely doesn't look.

"Whatever. I'm eating." Felix crawls into the tent and Sylvain crawls in behind him. They pull out what's left of their rations and separate some for the morning, eating what's left. It's not enough and Sylvain is profoundly aware if there's no town within half a day's journey down river they're screwed.

"Hope this is the last night we have to do this," Sylvain voices his concerns.

"We're travelling during a war, it won't be," Felix says correctly.

"I mean without enough food, without bows to hunt with, without clean underwear! Felix!"

"All of that is your fault."

"Ah, my dear Felix," Sylvain shakes a finger at him, "that may be my fault, but it's _your_ fault we're in the woods in the first place."

"So?" Felix looks down at his hands. "You didn't have to follow me."

_Fuck,_ it sucks when Felix gets like this. He always has to be right, that's just Felix, but if he feels like shit he'll find a way to be right and self-deprecating all at once. He has to save this. Redirect the conversation.

"I'll always follow you, Felix," he says with a wink, but without Felix looking at him it sounds sappy and earnest and —

"We've been over this, Sylvain, that stupid promise sounded way too much like a marriage proposal."

Perfect. "Are you telling me it wasn't?!"

"Sylvain we were _children."_ Conversation successfully redirected.

"Children who _looove_ each other."

Sylvain immediately goes hot. The air goes hot. He thanks the deities that bless his world for the darkness of night to mask what he's positive is a raging blush. It's cool, though. It's cool. The conversation will move forward and they'll move on, just like every other time he says something stupid. Felix does not fail to disappoint.

"When do we leave in the morning?"

Sylvain pretends to think, but it's still dark and Felix still doesn't see him. "I'm gonna go with after we wake up."

"Ugh." Sylvain can see the faint outline of Felix shuffle into his bedroll and lay down, facing away. He follows suit and a peaceful, if warm, silence fills the tent.

That night, as they lay side-by-side in a tent made for one man and his supplies, listening to the sound of the river peacefully flowing past, it's easy to ponder the wonders of a peaceful existence. A life in the woods, far away from the expectations of kingdom nobility, where he could carve his own path with a vegetable garden and a bow. Get a cat. His only visitors the people he invites and not enemy armies or strangers after status.

Part of him thinks this quiet kind of life would be wonderful. Homely. He could follow the river until he finds a town, gather supplies and food he can't catch or grow himself, and go back to his own little cabin. Another part of him refuses to think about a blessed life too long. It calls to him, beckons him to leave the cursed fate he's destined for. Another, very small part of him thinks he should put a stop to their prince pursual and stay where they are. Just them, the river, and hopefully some food. His heart grows warm at the fantasy despite pretending it doesn't exist.

He still thinks of waking up next to Felix every morning. He thinks, specifically, of this morning.

"Can I cuddle you again?" he asks bravely.

"What the fuck?" Felix asks disbelievingly.

"You heard what I said, Fraldarius!"

"I'm not your cuddle buddy, Sylvain."

Sylvain pouts because Felix can _hear_ it, he's sure of it.

"Shut up," Felix confirms his suspicions.

"None of those were a no..."

"That's because you're an _idiot."_

"Yay!" Sylvain crowds up in Felix's space and throws an arm over his side. If Felix wanted to say no he would. Felix, a spoilsport to the core, does not cuddle back.

Sylvain lays over Felix like that for a long time before finally falling asleep. Perhaps it's his thudding heart, or the feelings he's ignoring. Perhaps it's Felix lying awake, as well. Perhaps it's the promise they aren't absolutely, utterly fucked, and even if they were Sylvain thinks he could find peace with that.


	4. Out

The following morning begins much like the one before: with Sylvain curled comfortably against against Felix, and Felix relaxed for once in his damn life. He _knows_ he's relaxed for once in his damn life and that's probably the worst part. Their friends probably think they're dead, they're in the middle of nowhere and out of rations, his playboy best friend is sleeping against him, and he's _relaxed._

Ugh.

He should wake Sylvain up so they can pack and keep moving, but it's cold out there and it's warm in here and, while he doesn't want to make a habit of it, the last time he enjoyed a hug was three years ago, after the battle at Garreg Mach, when everyone was just happy to be alive and the weight of Byleth's missing presence reminded them just how lucky they were. It didn't last of course, nothing does in war; after Dimitri's supposed execution he retreated further into the fortress he built after Glenn's death and refused any supportive touch offered by Ingrid or Sylvain. He made a comfortable home in his solitude.

Rumors of an animalistic slayer gave him a foreign sense of hope but did nothing to pull his walls down. With hope he can fight for a better future rather than simply defend what's left. That better future involves a newly rebuilt Faerghus, the deconstruction of so-called knightly ideals and chivalry, and freedom for the people he cares about to live as they choose. That better future does _not_ involve his own happiness. He'll use his own freedom to fight and kill the ones threatening the innocent and, while it's not a happy life, it's the one he's meant for.

He isn't sure when he falls back asleep. Whatever _emotions_ he felt in the liminal space between waking and dreaming are promptly buried the moment he opens his eyes to Sylvain gently shaking him awake.

"We slept in pretty late," Sylvain's voice is gentle and his hand firm, "We should get moving. Make the most of the daylight."

Felix groans.

"Was that about getting up or sleeping in too late?"

Felix groans again.

"Okay, glad we made that clear."

Felix tries to come up with a really good comeback. All he can come up with is a groan.

"I'm nodding thoughtfully and pretending I understand your point."

_Fuck_ this guy. Felix props himself up on his elbows, though he's so groggy it feels like he's pushing his body through a swamp. "What's with you this morning?" he grunts.

Sylvain snickers in response. "I should be asking you that. Any day you don't push to start traveling before dawn is either a warning sign or a gift."

"M'was comfortable," Felix slurs.

"Comfortable? I don't think I've ever heard you say that word in your life."

Felix throws whatever he can grab at him. It ends up being a glove and, even through his sleep caked eyes, he can see that he misses wildly.

"Nice shot," Sylvain quips before throwing the glove back, hitting Felix square in the face.

"Urgh," Felix groans. He rubs the gunk out of his eyes and looks around. Sylvain seems to have gotten almost everything packed up already; his bedroll is, well, rolled, their weapons are ready, his boots have a bit of snow on the bottom so he must have gone outside. Did he really sleep through all that?

"Come on, get your coat on," Sylvain nudges Felix, who grumbles while he grabs his coat, "I gotta take the tent down. Can't do that if you're in here."

Felix fumbles with his coat. He curses himself through the whole process of one arm then the other and swears he'll never sleep this late again. He pushes himself out of his bedroll and through the tent flap, leaving his supplies for Sylvain to deal with. He doesn't feel bad. Sylvain never does anything.

Sylvain takes this all in stride. He methodically collapses the tent and packs everything up in the same pack they've been carrying for two days. Felix just watches, and when Sylvain stands up straight and looks at him expectantly, he realizes very suddenly that he's been staring this whole time. His face heats up and he turns his head to look at the water, instead.

"Well? Which way are we going?" Felix asks.

"Oh! I thought we'd go downstream. It's going south enough. I think this is the river that goes to Garreg Mach, actually, so if we find a road I should be able to figure out where we are."

Felix to has nothing to add so he adds nothing. He simply begins walking and Sylvain falls in step beside him. He digs through a pouch at his waist for a moment before retrieving a couple small, shapeless lumps.

"Well," Sylvain hands Felix a pathetic serving of rations with an apologetic smile, "Here's what's left! Let's hope we find a town or a javelin before we starve to death in the wilderness."

Felix stares at what can only be described as a _crumb._ Sylvain eats his without a second thought, even licking his fingers for the ghost of a ghost of flavor, and Felix makes up his mind.

"I'm not hungry," he shoves his ration back into Sylvain's startled hand, "you take it."

He's lying. He's hungry, but he's done plenty hungry. He nearly always trains before breakfast, he's fought before breakfast plenty and, well, Sylvain's always been a bit of a baby about it. Sure, he won't collapse or anything, but the dude's huge and maintaining that muscle comes with a certain set of requirements. Felix will be fine, hunger be damned.

Sylvain knows damn well what he's doing.

"We don't know when we'll find a town, just hang onto that for now," he pushes the ration into Felix's pocket, "just, uh, eat that before you get a bunch of hair all over it."

"Fine," Felix rolls his eyes. Fucking asshole.

They walk along the river at a casual pace; no point in rushing and needlessly exhausting themselves without an end goal in sight. They pass the occasional deer and rabbit tracks, but aside from that they may as well be walking through a wasteland of ice and leafless trees. It suddenly hits Felix that this is probably the exact situation Ingrid is fretting over right now while Ashe talks her down and insists they just ran off ahead. Sorry, Ingrid, but he ran off into the woods like a damn genius and now they're walking down a river without any rations and only the bare minimum of their weapons. Yay! Ugh.

Felix's toes are cold and with every step through this shallow layer of snow they get even colder. The fur lining of his boots were made to withstand the arctic winters of Gautier and northern Fraldarius but venturing through southern Faerghus is apparently too much for him now; Sylvain has even outpaced him, having walked a few steps ahead. He wonders when he got so weak. Was it when he lost his first battle at Garreg Mach? Or in the years of fighting the lost battle that followed? Maybe it was in the _year_ he's spent looking for the boar prince. Maybe it was in the few days since he was separated from the two most level people he knows and was stuck with the most chaotic person he's ever met.

"So, Fe," Sylvain begins chaotically, "how do you think Ingrid's gonna murder us?"

"Don't be stupid," Felix responds.

"Yeah, you're right. She'll convince Ashe to — "

Sylvain stops abruptly in front of him. Felix, who's reflexes have dulled from hunger and cold, walks full force into Sylvain's back.

"What the fuck?" he states more than he asks.

"I think," Sylvain pauses, "I think I see a boat docked up ahead."

Felix steps to Sylvain's side and look ahead. Sure enough, at the edge of his vision Felix can make out a boat tied to _something,_ and if he squints he thinks he can see movement. Merchants unloading their boat, perhaps? Soldiers? Bandits? Whatever it is, it means civilization, and civilization means dinner.

"Let's go," Felix nudges Sylvain forward. They walk with a purpose, pointing out details to one another as they get closer and notice things such as the fishing net tied to what they can now see is a dock, several different people walking back and forth, and finally, _finally_ they're close enough to recognize a fairly worn path trailing from the dock and away from the water.

A town.

Felix breathes a sigh of relief, ever aware of the emptiness in his stomach and the bare minimum amount of gold with them. It's enough for a meal. Sylvain must think the same thing as he hurries forward on the path and into a small village; most towns in Faerghus are nothing more than glorified, lively fortresses, but this one is small enough that it hasn't bothered with the protection of high walls and turrets. Not great news for work, but being more vulnerable to attacks by bandits and beasts means they're more likely to strike some sort of deal, even if it's work for food and a room before they move toward a larger town with more resources.

Sylvain quickly finds a small restaurant and Felix follows after him. He tunes out whatever conversation he has with the server or owner or cook, letting him take care of the niceties and flirtations while Felix silently observes their surroundings. He doesn't find any immediate threats, but he _does_ find three potential escape routes should one appear. The prospect puts him at ease and, when they're seated and gold has exchanged hands, he's able to focus on the present.

"Quaint," he observes. Sylvain glances around and nods in agreement.

"Looks like a cute village," Sylvain says, "Ethel, there, said they don't really have a lord or a guard or anyone like that, but she thinks some villagers might be able to put some gold together if we can deal with their little bandit problem."

Felix raises an eyebrow. Sylvain smirks.

"Knew you'd like that," he says, punctuated with a wink.

"What kind of bandit problem?" Felix asks. He'd love a challenge, but the fact is he has two swords and a handful of knives. Sylvain is better equipped, having been cursed to carry the Lance of Ruin everywhere he goes, but he prefers to fight on horseback and they are notably horseless.

"I imagine we'll find out," Sylvain says conversationally. Felix goes from feeling secure and comfortable to on edge and he checks his belt for his swords. Sylvain notices. "Calm down! If they were anything we couldn't handle they would've destroyed the village by now. From the sounds of it they've just been robbing passing merchants. It's hard to get supplies in."

Felix's shoulders relax a sliver. "We should still get a bow," he says.

"I'm sure we can get one. A village like this hunts."

Felix nods and they fall into a companionable silence. The food comes. Ethel, apparently, is a perfectly kind old lady, if a bit light on the seasoning. She makes conversation with them but Felix can hardly follow anything she's saying, so he lets Sylvain deal with the social part while he eats. Though bland, the food brings a certain level of comfort. He attributes that to the whole not-starving-to-death-in-the-woods thing.

Sylvain taps the table in front of him. "So, a few things," he begins.

Felix stares.

"Could've guessed, but there's no messenger around right now."

Felix nods, unsurprised.

"Could've guessed this as well, but there's not a lot of gold here."

Felix nods, still unsurprised. He'd stomp down a bandit problem for no gold whatsoever.

"But!" Sylvain's face lights up, "they'll give us a room for a few nights and a couple bows. They don't have enough food to spare, but if we can catch our own game we can cook it."

Felix nods, pleased.

"And," Sylvain leans forward conspiratorially, "there's rumors about a slaughtered Imperial battalion to the west."

Now _that_ catches Felix off guard. "What? When?"

Sylvain shrugs. "Couldn't tell you that, but once this village is safe and we can find a messenger we should follow up."

Felix shakes his head. "Village safe, then the boar, _then_ a messenger."

"Uh, not a good idea. Ingrid and Ashe probably think we're dead."

"And when are they going to Fraldarius to get a message?" Felix pushes. "By the time we take care of this little bandit problem and find a trail to the boar they probably won't be halfway there, if they're even going that way."

Sylvain looks at him. Like, _really_ looks at him, in a way that makes Felix very conscious of their extended eye contact. He looks down at his empty plate; Sylvain's gaze has a way of stripping him to his very core and reading between every word and glare. It's awful. It's annoying. It reminds him of how much he wishes Sylvain were this observant on the battlefield so he didn't have to constantly cover his ass.

He must find whatever he was looking for because he continues. "We should come up with a plan. They're attacking merchants coming from the southeast — "

"So we go southeast and kill a bunch of bandits. There's the plan. When do we leave?"

Sylvain is quiet. Felix glances up to see him smiling sadly. "A lot of good people have turned to crime to feed themselves and their kids," he says softly, "it's war. I want to try and help them, too."

Felix rolls his eyes. Sylvain gets too damn sentimental, even when a village is being cut off from the world. "Fine. Whatever. We go southwest and we talk to bandits or kill them."

"I don't think this is a very thorough plan."

"When have we needed to come up with a thorough plan?! Everything's gone fine so far. It's not like we're going up against the Empire, these are some bandits in the woods."

"Everything has _not_ gone fine so far," Sylvain points out, "you may have forgotten, but we were separated from Ingrid and Ashe a few days ago. That's not fine, that's half our forces."

"You say that as if we're an army."

"Well, we're definitely not a very _big_ army," Sylvain's smile has returned to normal. Good. His job is done.

"Whatever." Felix pushes his plate to the middle of the table and leans back in his chair. "Let's take care of this today. I want to get moving."

Sylvain shrugs. "I s'pose we can plan on the way there," he says and Felix ignores him, "let's grab those bows from dear old Ethel and see what we can do."


	5. Gratitude

It takes a surprisingly long time to track down a couple bows in such a small village, but Ethel manages to get the supplies they need as well as a handful of bread rolls. Sylvain is sure to thank her _profusely,_ the woman having saved their damn lives. He adds in extra gratitude to make up where Felix is lacking.

Sylvain wants to take his time. See the sights. Meet the townsfolk and see how they live. Felix does not. Felix wants to run directly to their job, swiftly deal with the problem, and move on.

“C’mon, we’ve been in the woods for days!” Sylvain whines, “A little civilization never hurt anyone. We could talk to people, meet some girls —”

“Don’t finish that statement,” Felix snaps.

“Okay, I won’t,” Sylvain sighs. He rests his hands behind his head and takes in his surroundings; there’s only a few occupied homes, some firewood, and very little else. “There’s probably not much to do around here, anyway.”

“Not much to eat, either,” Felix reminds him, “Which is a problem we’re currently trying to solve if you’d stop slacking off.”

“Hey, I’m coming!”

The single road running through the village or encampment or whatever very quickly leads them back into the woods they were lost in only hours prior. The two of them are the only travelers, two stray dogs just trying to scrounge up their next meal. Just like dogs they seem to be running into whatever bullshit lies ahead without a thought or a plan.

Sylvain doesn’t like that.

“I really, really think we should come up with a strategy,” Sylvain says to the brick wall walking beside him.

“I told you, we don’t need one,” Felix says, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Would a plan hurt? Why are you so against one?”

Felix scowls. “It’s a waste of energy. It’s a couple of bandits, just do what I tell you and we’ll be fine.”

Sylvain whistles low. “You’re no general, buddy,” he says.

“So?”

“You didn’t even want to command a battalion,” Sylvain points out, “Called yourself a _lone wolf_ even though that’s not a thing and you know it. If you can’t command a battalion —”

“I never said I _can’t_ command a battalion!”

“If you won’t,” Sylvain corrects, “What makes you think you can command me?”

“You’re one person. A relatively competent person,” Felix says, “A battalion is just a crowd that gets in the way of my blade.”

“How wide are you swinging?”

Felix doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Okay so, while we’re fighting those bandits, don’t swing your sword so wide —”

“Holy shit, Sylvain, shut the fuck up.”

“— and we’ll stick near each other —”

“This is stupid.”

“— and we’ll take time to stake them out first!”

“No shit!”

“Do you have anything you’d like to add to this plan?” Sylvain purrs.

“We win. That’s it, that’s the plan,” Felix snaps back.

“Fine, fine,” Sylvain sighs, though he thinks Felix should really listen to him, considering he was actually trained in authority and it’s, like, kind of a thing he knows how to handle.

Some time later, after Felix and Sylvain notice a beaten trail leading to an encampment and they’ve found a hiding spot nearby, Sylvain acquiesces. Felix is right, this is nothing.

The encampment hosts two incredibly beaten up tents, a fire pit, some cooking supplies, though it’s lacking any supplies to transport any stolen goods. No carts, wagons, wheelbarrows, he can’t even see any crates. He turns this over in his mind, something’s missing, there’s something he should know, but it’s missing.

“They don’t have a wagon,” Sylvain points out.

“So?”

“That’s weird,” Sylvain explains with every detail he knows.

Felix scoffs. Sylvain is bothered. The sun slowly moves above them and, late in the afternoon, after Sylvain’s ass has frozen, a guy crawls out of the tent. Dude’s tall, dirty (Sylvain wonders if he knows there’s a perfectly good river nearby), and unless his winter gear is padded to hell, he’s ripped.

“Alright, burly dude,” Sylvain whispers. Felix doesn’t bother to hush him. They watch him do his bandit thing for a few more minutes and Felix shifts. Sylvain raises his eyebrow.

“Let’s get this over with,” Felix says.

“Remember, we want to talk to them first,” Sylvain says. Felix rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, you do that part,” he mutters.

“It’s what I’m best at,” Sylvain punctuates this with a wink that Felix doesn’t notice.

“Get on with it, then,” he says through gritted teeth. Sylvain thinks he may have eaten rocks with how quickly his gut plummets, screaming at him to use his big brain for once, but he doesn’t often listen to his instincts and he’s not about to start now. Instead, he follows Felix’s instructions, and stands straight up out of the brush, looking like an out of place sunflower.

“Hey! So,” Sylvain says to the big ass dirty bandit staring at him, wide-eyed and possibly drooling a bit, “I’m sure you understand. I’ve been hired —”

“Hired to what,” Mister Bandit says dangerously. Sylvain puts on his award winning smile and carries on.

“I’ve been hired to take care of a little bandit problem.”

Mister Bandit wraps his hand around the axe strapped at his hip. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain sees Felix mirror his movements around his sword, crouched in the bush.

“Now, that won’t be necessary, I hope,” Sylvain says to both of them, “I wasn’t hired to stab bandits, just to get them to leave. You catch my drift?”

Mister Bandit catches his drift just fine. Sylvain knows; he can tell. He has a moment to reflect that maybe this would have gone better if Mister Bandit could see Felix so he wasn’t under the impression Sylvain was alone, or maybe he should have jumped in and showed off his mad combat skills before orating about peace and nonviolence or whatever. Perhaps he should have listened to the rocks in his gut. Unfortunately for himself, and soon Mister Bandit, he didn’t do any of that and Mister Bandit thinks he’s a joke.

It happens in a flash; a sliver of light reflects off the iron of a hand axe and it’s gone, in its place is the tail end of Felix’s sword’s arc, the only evidence it was ever there the echoing of metal-on-metal that reverberates through the trees. The axe lands on the ground to the right and Felix, blessed Felix, sprints forward and skewers the bandit on his blade.

Or he might’ve, Sylvain realizes as his brain undoes its autocomplete, had an arrow not embedded itself into the ground directly between Felix and Mister Bandit. Felix darts to the left to dodge and, from somewhere extremely well hidden that Sylvain can’t identify, a girl who can’t be older than thirteen lunges at him with a dagger.

Sylvain makes the split-second decision that enough is enough. He gets between Felix and the girl; her dagger scrapes uselessly against his armor and he uses his proximity and her imbalance to topple her with a lance and kick her back. Her dagger lands behind her. Good; Sylvain doesn’t want to attack a kid, and hopefully this knocks some sense into her and she runs. He gives her a look that’s meant to say _get the fuck out of here you’re a child_ and is met with a look that says _fuck you._

Unfortunately he doesn’t have time to save wayward souls; there’s Mister Bandit the Axe Man, an archer somewhere, several throwing daggers littering the ground around them, and the bandit group they seem to have greatly underestimated is shouting instructions to one another.

Sylvain would like a moment to remind everyone, especially Felix, that he suggested they come up with a plan and not jump into this blind.

“This is a bit more than we bargained for,” Sylvain says to Felix, who doesn’t appreciate it.

“Less talking, more working,” he snaps.

“The bandits don’t seem to have a problem doing both at once,” Sylvain points out helpfully. Felix doesn’t appreciate it but he doesn’t have time to tell Sylvain just how irritating he is before he takes off in the direction Sylvain’s pretty sure the archer is in. Sylvain would love to yell to him, he really would, but Mister Bandit the Axe Man has a new axe that Sylvain would prefer didn’t make contact with his head.

“Shit,” he hisses as the axe comes down at him. He catches it at the junction of head and handle and pushes up, off, whatever he can get against this dude who’s technique doesn’t come close to his but who’s strength outmatches him.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees, to his left, someone grab the girl and dart. To his right, he sees Felix cut a figure down and turn to slice at another one.

He does not see the bandit sneaking up via the blind spot on the back of his head.

He screams in pain at the same time Felix screams in fury. Mister Bandit the Axe Man’s axe wins out against his faltered grip and catches him on the left shoulder, denting in his pauldron and very likely breaking his collarbone. His left arm falls followed by his entire body. From the ground he registers pain, incredibly sharp, aching, burning pain radiating from his left shoulder around to his entire back. He tries to stand, to fight, to live, and as his right arm gives out under him he thinks he may have really fucked this one up.

He can barely make out Felix’s voice screaming, “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” through the swampy depths of his brain, so focused on staying alive and conscious that his surroundings feel padded and far, far away. He tries to open his eyes, barely makes out shadows moving in and out of his vision, and gives that up as a lost cause. Even if he can reach his magic right now he wouldn’t know which shadow is Felix and which shadow is an enemy. There’s a crack he barely hears that hurts his ears anyway followed by more Felix screaming and then, as he clings to consciousness while his blood falls out of his head and into his torso, he’s being hauled up and dragged.

“Fe,” he grunts out. Felix is still screaming, moving erratically. Sylvain tries to get his feet under himself but they’re moving too quickly to keep up. He hurts. Oh, hell, he hurts.

“Fe,” he tries again when the yelling and jerking finally slows down.

“Shut up,” Felix says through what must be layers and layers of blankets and down, “Stop talking. Stay conscious.”

“Are they following us?” he tries to say, but it comes out more like “Rrrgh.”

“It’s just us. I’m looking for somewhere to sit down and heal you.” Ah, Felix has always been able to understand him so well.

“You don’t have enough magic,” he tries to say, but it comes out similar to before. Felix either doesn’t understand this statement or doesn’t want to respond.

Now, Sylvain has been in pain before. He’s been hurt plenty of times; hit by blows meant for him, blows meant for his friends, blows meant for strangers, magical attacks, axes and swords, and it sucks. He knows it sucks, but everytime he’s fully healed he locks the memories of pain away in the dark recesses of his brain where they don’t bother him so much, and everytime he’s injured again it comes back to him in a flood.

Time passes differently when you’re in pain. It slows, and you get to savor the suffering every second until you either heal or die, and it always feels like you’re going to die. Sometimes, when it’s bad enough, Sylvain wishes he would die, but this asshole dragging him through the woods never lets it get that far. Something something promised to die together. They both seem to take it so seriously when it comes to the other, but not when it comes to themselves.

He doesn’t realize he’s being set down until he feels the familiar sensation of ground under his ass

“Nnngh,” he says.

“I said shut up,” Felix says. Even through the thick darkness he can tell Felix isn’t angry like usual; he’s worried and guilty.

“It’s not your fault,” he tries and slurs.

“How is it that you can never shut up?”

From far away he can feel Felix carefully removing his dented pauldron and undoing the leather straps securing his breastplate. Ashe has usually been the one doing this part since they’ve been searching like this, and before that it was Mercedes or Annette. Later, when he’s able to think straight, he’ll wonder if he can ask Felix to be the one to remove his armor all the time.

“Stay still,” Felix instructs, “They broke your collarbone and a few of your ribs.”

Sylvain groans.

“It’s not that bad, Mercedes would be able to heal you in one go. But we’re shit out of luck and you only have me. Sorry.”

Not that bad. Heh.

Sylvain sighs in relief when healing magic seeps into his body and into his bones. He’s been healed by Felix a handful of times, for small things like a bruise from a training weapon, or a scratch from an overzealous cat. This is the first time he’s been on the receiving end of his real, deep healing. It’s a difficult feeling to describe, but if he had to put it into words, he’d say it feels like being enveloped in blankets and furs in front of a fireplace with the love of his life. It feels like home and forever.

“That’s all I can do for now,” Felix says some time later. It hurts less. It’s there, but a background piece, something that follows rather than commands him. “I need to immobilize your shoulder, but there’s nothing we can do for your back besides shove snow against it.”

Sylvain nods and tries to gather snow in his hands.

“Knock it off, stop moving,” Felix sighs. Sylvain knocks it off and stops moving. He finally opens his eyes. It comes as a surprise that he’s leaning forward against Felix, his right arm draped over Felix’s shoulder for stability and his left arm being held gently while Felix wraps a bandage around his shoulder and his forearm to create a sling. Unthinkingly he nuzzles his face into Felix’s neck and Felix must be feeling real guilty because he _lets him._

“Thanks, Fe,” he mutters, “I feel better.”

Felix grunts in response.

“I killed the guy who snuck up on you with the mace,” Felix says. Sylvain, who is only sort of conscious, raises his eyebrows.

“A mace?”

“Yeah. Not sure what they needed a mace for, robbing merchants, but regardless you got smacked pretty good with a mace. You’re lucky he didn’t hit your head.”

Sylvain nods. Tries to nod. It’s hard to tell if he’s moving. He’s so tired. It’s safe now, he can probably sleep for a bit.

“Sorry,” is the last thing he hears before he dips into unconsciousness.

* * *

Sylvain wakes up either later that evening or the next morning, he’s not sure and he doesn’t know which way is which. He sits up slowly, gently, careful not to jerk the muscles over his ribs, and as he looks around he realizes a few things.

One, he was sleeping on a pile of snow, their bedroll laid out on top of him.

Two, he’s in significantly less pain than he was before falling asleep, and the bandage wrapped up like a sling has kept its place and form.

Three, Felix has either fallen asleep before dusk, or he’s slept past dawn.

Sylvain fishes a roll out of a pack Felix left between them and observes Felix while he eats. Felix has never had a particular talent in faith or first aid or anything someone else on the battlefield could take care of better than him, but he took care of Sylvain as he does all things: thoroughly, accurately, and crabbily. He’s a bit touched.

It’s nice to be cared for. It’s not something he gets to experience a lot.

And, he thinks, it’s nice to care for someone else, too.


	6. Red

Felix’s dreams are haunted by a red river of blood that flows from Sylvain’s mouth and onto the ground, coating his hands in pain and death, causing him to jolt awake every few hours. Every few hours he confirms Sylvain is alive, if exhausted, warm underneath a bedroll only a few steps away before collapsing back to the ground for another few hours. He wakes up at dawn as usual, checks Sylvain’s pulse, and passes out yet again.

The next time he wakes up in a panic with shallow breath, Sylvain’s hands run through his hair and lightly scratch against his scalp.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” Sylvain murmurs. His voice soothes something in his heart. “Everything’s okay. We’re safe.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out before thinking.

“It’s okay, Felix.”

He feels his body being moved around and he doesn’t have the energy to fight it. When he’s laid back down there’s something firm and warm under his head. Something comforting and protective.

When he wakes again some time later he dimly registers that he had no dreams, just merciful darkness that was gone in a blink. His head is still resting on something and a light touch runs through his hair, relaxing him and grounding him all at once. He forces himself to open his eyes and haloed by the dappled sunlight overhead is Sylvain, leaning against a tree trunk, looking far too relaxed for someone who could’ve died less than 24 hours ago.

He realizes, then, that his head is resting in Sylvain’s lap.

“What the hell?” he mumbles. Sylvain’s head jerks to look at him and he smiles that damned smile.

“Hey, Felix! You had me worried,” he says, “You never sleep past dawn.”

Felix can’t come up with an excuse so he doesn’t respond.

“I’m feeling way better than yesterday,” he continues, “I bet one more round of healing will be enough, then we can take care of what’s left at that camp.”

He grimaces at that. He pushes himself up and off Sylvain’s lap and realizes —

“Where’s my hair tie?”

“Hm?”

“I asked where my hair tie is. Were you even listening?”

“Nope!” Sylvain winks. Felix pushes his face away. “Oh! But I do know where your hair tie is.”

Felix stops assaulting Sylvain’s face and raises an eyebrow. He carefully looks anywhere but at Sylvain’s sling, his eyes settling on the pale cluster of freckles crossing from his cheeks to his nose. They’ll darken come summer. Felix wonders if he’ll get them killed before then.

“Well?” he demands when Sylvain doesn’t immediately provide.

“I think you’re forgetting the magic word,” Sylvain sings.

Felix punches him.

“Ow! Hey, I’m injured, here!” Sylvain whines.

“And whose fault is that?” Felix spits back.

Sylvain rubs a hand over where Felix just punched him and hums, deep in thought. “You know, weirdly enough, I seem to remember someone refusing to come up with some sort of plan — “

“You didn’t need to follow me,” Felix says harshly.

Sylvain doesn’t know what to say to that. To be fair, neither does Felix, but he keeps saying things anyway.

“If you know I’m about to do something stupid that ends with you getting hurt, don’t fucking follow me!” he continues, “What if I didn’t take out those archers and you got shot in the throat? What if I didn’t see you fall and you got bludgeoned by those guys? What if — “

“Felix.”

“ — there were even more bandits — “

“Felix.”

“ — and they had even stronger weapons? Where would I be?!”

“Felix!”

“What?!” Felix’s breathing is labored. He’s warm. Despite the glacial temperatures he can feel himself working up a sweat. He notes, in the back of this mind, that this is unsafe and makes him more likely to contract hypothermia, which doesn’t matter in the face of Sylvain’s sling and Sylvain’s easy smile that he almost _lost._

“It’s fine,” Sylvain says evenly. He rests his good hand on Felix’s shoulder. “I’m right here. I’m fine.”

_He’s right here. He’s fine._

Well Felix isn’t fucking fine.

Filled with the kind of frenetic energy that pops and surges and cuts and screams, Felix gets to his feet and walks back and forth in front of Sylvain, gesticulating wildly.

“What if you had gotten hurt worse!?” he yells. He’s pissed. “What if it was so bad that I couldn’t heal you? We haven’t had Mercedes for three years, Sylvain! This isn’t new!”

“Felix!” Sylvain stands at that. The unsteady way he sways stabs at Felix and it’s like he’s fighting a horde of bandits all over again. “Felix, it’s okay. I know you’re scared — “

“Scared?!” He nearly laughs.

“Yes, Fe, I know you’re scared!” Sylvain’s face screws up and he continues, “You know you’re scared, right?”

“I’m not _scared,_ Sylvain, I’m _pissed!”_

“Mm, no buddy, you’re scared.”

Felix’s chest heaves. He clenches and unclenches his fists, looking off deeper into the woods while he tries his damndest to chill the fuck out. His fury — or fear, as Sylvain insists — trickles down his body and out into the snow as exhaustion takes over him.

“Whatever,” he mutters, his fight gone. He falls back on his ass and sits cross legged in the snow. A bit gets lodged in his boots. He doesn’t care. Sylvain sits down in front of him much more gently and takes one of his hands with his, his other hand still immobilized.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says and _fuck_ his eyes are so soft, so understanding. Felix looks away but he can’t bring himself to retract his hand. “Just let yourself be scared for a minute. You don’t need to hide everything behind anger.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. He’s stayed alive this long through the sheer power of fury and he’ll continue to do so.

Sylvain must think he’s won. He just smiles and squeezes Felix’s hand. Felix flinches at the affection and chooses to ignore Sylvain’s concerned look.

“So,” Felix begins, “You’re awake.”

“Uh, yeah. Did you hurt your hand?” Sylvain tries to get a closer look but Felix jerks back, ripping his hand from Sylvain’s.

“No,” he says. Sylvain doesn’t look convinced. “Come here, I’d better try and heal your collarbone some more. How do your ribs feel?”

“I’m pretty sure you hurt your hand, dude.”

He did not hurt his hand.

“My hand is _fine,”_ Felix hisses. Fucking ass, this guy can be stubborn. “Let me see your broken fucking collarbone.”

Sylvain shrugs with his uninjured side and leans forward for Felix to inspect. Felix doesn’t say anything when Sylvain rests his forehead in his neck. He doesn’t feel anything, either.

Healing magic flows from deep within his veins and into Sylvain’s shoulder. It mends the bone and laces muscle and tendons together, leaving more scar tissue than someone else’s magic, like Mercedes, would, but it’s what they have and what they’ll work with. His hands trail down Sylvain’s back and repair the worst of his ribs. Twisting and moving won’t be terrible, and he’ll be able to defend himself if need be.

“I don’t have enough magic to fully heal you and be prepared for an emergency,” he tells Sylvain, who hums against him. “You can get up now.”

Sylvain nuzzles into his neck. “Don’t wanna.”

Felix, who has spent years repressing this very fantasy, stills.

Felix, who is very quickly convincing himself this could possibly mean anything, who is reading far too much into the platonic actions of an exhausted friend, who is being _fucking weird_ about this, has a blank mind and a very, very full heart.

“Felix?”

It’s just his luck that Sylvain would notice.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. Sylvain straightens up looking like a cross between a sad puppy and a wet cat.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to, uh. You know.”

Finally freed from their face-to-neck contact, Felix’s brain returns to planet realism. He ignores the pang in his gut as he’s doused in the ice-cold revelation that they’re outside in the middle of the woods and not curled up somewhere warm and homely. He makes a mental note to stab himself in the brain later.

“Whatever,” he says, “We need to focus. Let’s just worry about dealing with that camp.”

Sylvain nods. To Felix’s immense relief he doesn’t try to look him in the eye, instead looking in the direction they came from. “Should we, uh, come up with a plan this time?” Sylvain asks.

“You’re better at that stuff than me,” Felix mumbles. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. Felix shoves him a bit harder than he should shove someone right after they’ve been freshly healed but he’ll be fine.

Sylvain thinks for a moment.

“I think I have an idea,” he says with an incredibly stupid look on his face.

* * *

It’s colder than yesterday.

The bandit encampment has been largely vacated; Felix can’t see the actual child anywhere, at least, and only four or five people are sitting around a raging fire. An archer sits in a tree to the south, and Felix gets the feeling none of these guys are stealthy enough for there to be a hidden archer anywhere else. He jerks his head toward the archer. Sylvain nods.

The plan goes something like this:

They take the time to properly stake out the encampment and locate any wandering watches. Conveniently, it seems like any wandering watch is either dead or gone, bringing them to step two: locate any peripheral forces.

One archer. Next.

Felix creeps around the perimeter toward the single stray archer. Sylvain stays crouched behind some shrubbery, keeping stock still and silent, awaiting a signal.

The archer falls easily, but certainly not silently. The seconds of gargled yells before he dies will likely haunt Felix’s dreams for awhile.

“Sorry,” Felix mutters. He means it, but he doesn’t have time for prayer; step three of their plan, destroy the encampment, is now in motion.

At the final sound of the archer’s death Sylvain and Felix both leap into action. They cut through the shrubbery and, while Felix sprints to disarm the remaining bandits, Sylvain sends a fire spell to their single remaining tent and it erupts in flames. Felix hopes nobody was in it.

“Here’s the fucking thing,” Felix draws himself to his full height and pulls his shoulders back to address the disarmed folks standing between him and the fire, “You’re gonna knock it the fuck off, whether you leave willingly or die by my sword. My friend here,” he gestures to Sylvain, “Seems to think some of you lot might be worthy of redemption. If you think that’s you, I suggest you fucking leave.”

Nobody can say he’s not merciful.

Sylvain ambles up beside him and rests an elbow on his shoulder. He’s sure they make quite the sight, framed by flames like demons from hell, bloodthirsty and out for revenge. The fucking losers they bested yesterday have returned, stronger than ever, and they don’t have a chance.

“I’ll keep my life, thanks,” a woman with curly hair and killer biceps says. She takes the hand of a tattooed person who stands much taller than Felix and they flee. Felix notes their flinch when they cross paths with the archer’s corpse.

“How about you?” Sylvain asks the remaining two. The shorter one rolls their eyes and leaves without a word. The final bandit doesn’t move. His eyes dart between the two of them.

“You burnt up my only tent,” he squeaks out.

“You hit my friend with a mace,” Felix snarls back.

“Oh.”

Felix raises an eyebrow and, when the man doesn’t move, he raises his sword as well.

“I think I’ll just, uh, get a new one,” he says hastily before following his friends out, leaving Felix and Sylvain with their campfire and tent fire. Felix breathes out, long and slow, and turns to Sylvain.

“I would’ve really liked to kill that last one,” he says.

“I know,” Sylvain smirks, “You’re learning self control. I’m proud.”

Felix punches his good shoulder. Sylvain laughs openly and, without the threat of starvation or death hanging over them, Felix can accept it for what it is: warm, earnest, and Sylvain.

Sylvain picks up the remaining canvas from the torched tent. “Damn,” he mumbles, “Don’t think this is salvageable.”

Felix snorts. “If you wanted to take their tent we shouldn’t have planned to destroy it.”

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” Sylvain admits. He stomps out the small remaining flame. “But it’s okay, I kinda like sharing with you.”

Felix turns away before Sylvain can see him blush. “Whatever.”

* * *

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly —”

Felix rolls his eyes and accepts the basket filled with rolls, pastries, and a bit of gold from the elderly village woman. “Thanks,” he says. She beams.

“It’s thanks to you I could prepare this at all,” she says warmly with a pat to his hand, “The war has made many things difficult, but with the road cleared up merchants will be able to get into town, and that makes all the difference.”

What would really make all the difference would be finding the damn prince and removing Cornelia from a throne she has no right to, but Felix doesn’t say this out loud.

“I’m just glad we could help out,” Sylvain says. He claps Felix on the back. “Now, ah, which way should we head for a town with a messenger?”

Ethel, Felix thinks her name was, nods and retrieves a map. She spreads it on the table in front of her and drags a finger across the paper.

“The closest would likely be here,” she tells them, pointing at a mark near the border of Charon and Gaspard. Felix’s stomach drops and Ethel must catch a similar look of dread on Sylvain’s face because she quickly changes gears. “If you’re looking to avoid the Empire you could travel east,” she points at a mark near the mountainous border of Faerghus and the Alliance “Or you could head north toward Galatea. It’s a wasteland that way, though, I tell ya. I, myself, left during the great famine.”

Felix chooses not to mention they’re trying to send a message to the Galatea heir.

“Thank you so much, my good lady,” Sylvain says, his smile broad and bright. “Truly, you’ve helped us immensely.”

She smiles in return and they say their goodbyes, declining a room in favor of getting to the next town as soon as possible. If circumstances were different, though, Felix thinks he could stand to stay a few days in this tiny off-the-map village.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Felix says as they leave Ethel’s home. “We should head to the west. Toward Gaspard.”

Sylvain looks at him, his eyes searching for what he already knows. “You want to check in on those rumors.”

Felix nods.

“I — Felix, I think it’s more important we get a message sent to Galatea so they know we’re alive.”

Felix shrugs. “We can send a message from the town there. It’s closer. Who knows, maybe Ashe went that way to check on Gaspard territory.”

Sylvain gives him a look. They both know damn well Ashe did _not_ go that way to check on Gaspard territory. He drops the fight with a shrug.

“Alright, let’s go west,” he says, “The moment we see fighting we change course, though. We’ve managed to avoid battle so far, I’d like to keep it that way.”

He can’t argue with that. The image of Sylvain’s barely conscious, bleeding body is still fresh in his mind, and the helpless feeling when he couldn’t make it better immediately claws at him.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “I just want to check. If we can prove it was him —”

“Then this all wasn’t a waste,” Sylvain finishes for him. “Yeah, I know.”

Felix nods. “Yeah,” he sighs. He knows.


	7. Trouble

Sylvain is a troublemaker. The cause problems on purpose type. The kind of guy who goes shit digging and looking for fights and hurt and pain for reasons he doesn’t fully understand but accepts as a simple fact of life. This hobby of his affords him certain skills: he’s good at hurting people, good at pushing people away.

Most of all, he’s good at seeing trouble.

Between Felix peering around for piles of dead bodies and Sylvain changing their route anytime he hears footsteps, the journey takes about a day longer than expected. It’s fine. It’s just a day longer to consider their next destination, a day longer to relax in the wilderness under the stars, and a day longer for Sylvain to get a swift kick in the ass by reality. Felix hasn’t said anything and Sylvain’s not about to bring it up, but he got way too bold and way too handsy; after all, the only person Felix has shown any kind of devotion to is Dimitri.

It’s good they’ve had this extra day. He needed to remember that before he did something spectacularly stupid like take Felix out to dinner, or call him handsome when he’s caked with dirt and sweat. That would be just great; less than a week ago Felix got pissed in the middle of the woods that Sylvain would treat him like one of his flings, and here he is, thinking about Felix like one of his flings.

Fuck, he’s scum. Felix is a good man, Felix has never seen him as a studhorse or status wrapped up with a bow, he seems him for who he is. Just like how he saw Dimitri as a deeply broken, unstable man who desperately needed help, he sees Sylvain as he is: scum.

“Sorry, Fe.”

Felix looks at him with a heinous scrunched up face. “For what?” he spits, “For getting hurt? For getting lost? For a lifetime of philandering?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Well? Which one?”

Sylvain shrugs and repeats himself. “Yeah.”

Felix scoffs. “Idiot.”

Sylvain hums. He hates this feeling; being around Felix has always felt so natural, so simple, and this? This dumbass crush thing? It’s making everything awkward, and all because Felix showed he cared about him like any good friend would. But he’s a problem solver; he can take care of his little problem just as soon as they find this town.

“Anyway,” he continues like absolutely nothing happened and earns a sharp glare from Felix, “You ever been western Charon?”

“Yes, idiot, and you were there with me.”

Sylvain thinks back to traveling to and from Garreg Mach. “Ah, so I was.”

There’s a pause where Felix doesn’t want to fill the silence and Sylvain desperately, desperately does.

“You been to this town? Specifically?”

“Doubt it,” Felix says flatly, “Why do you care?”

“Hm, just thought you might know where to find some girls, is all.”

Felix stops cold. Sylvain avoids his eyes.

“You realize _finding some girls_ is what got us into this predicament, correct?” he hisses. Sylvain weighs his options and decides his best option is, obviously, to make Felix hates him; that way, even if he slips up and admits to having _feelings,_ Felix will just stab him and he won’t have this problem anymore.

“I think you running into the woods is what got us into this predicament.”

He doesn’t have to look at Felix to feel the glacial disdain emanating from his shoulders. Mission accomplished; He, Sylvain Gautier, fuckup extroardinaire, has solved his probl —

“Sorry,” Felix grunts out.

What.

“What?” Sylvain asks. He finally turns to see Felix staring at the ground with a scowl and wow a blush suits him. He swallows. He’s got it bad.

“I said sorry,” Felix seems to have a lot of trouble forcing the words out, “I won’t say it again. Fuck you.”

Sylvain throws his hands up and realizes very quickly he actually, literally threw his hands up.

“Whatever,” Felix spits, “Let’s just get to this stupid town. The Boar Prince clearly hasn’t been here.”

Sylvain sighs, both at himself and at Felix. “Yeah. Okay. We should be pretty close. Let’s just, uh, let’s just go.”

* * *

The town is, indeed, pretty close. And lucky for Sylvain, the girls are pretty, too.

“Nice,” he says under his breath. His eyes follow a freckled redhead who leans a little more orange than him. Times are lean and she must’ve sold her slip or petticoat; the fabric of her skirt drapes over her ass perfectly and Sylvain thinks he can get used to lean times.

“Well?” Felix’s demanding voice cuts through his escalating fantasy, “Where are we finding this messenger we’ve been traveling for?”

“Hm?” Sylvain tears his eyes away and promptly remembers why he let them wander in the first place. Felix’s stop-looking-at-girls glare really does something to him. “Oh. Uh, there’s probably a courier in the market or at a tavern or something. Think you can handle it?”

He doesn’t wait to listen to Felix’s protests, though he takes satisfaction in hearing those colorful words shouted at his back while he chases down Miss Orange Nice Ass which, on second thought, isn’t a very good name.

The devious smile she gives him as he approaches paints pretty new words for her. The bruise under his eye when her boyfriend notices him laying it on a bit thick paints a new one.

“Yikes,” he chuckles to himself with a handful of snow pressed against his cheek. He’s thankful Felix wasn’t around to see that, though the look on Ingrid’s face would’ve been worth the lump on the back of his head. He eyes a short-haired blonde and quickly decides that’d be too weird so soon after thinking of her beating his ass and he moves on.

He’s chasing after a girl with pants tucked into boots that go up to her thighs when he runs into Felix again. He abandons his pursuit and tries to slink into an alley before he’s sighted. Predictably, his loud ass armor broadcasts his movements, and he briefly meets Felix’s eye.

Felix looks away like he saw nothing and somehow that’s worse than the shouting. He swallows and continues chasing after Miss Leather Thigh Highs.

* * *

Turns out Miss Leather Thigh Highs was a bad fucking choice.

Not that he was out to make good choices today; no, that’s not his style. But he really could’ve done without incredibly rude reality check while his teeth were working against the hem of her boot, and he’s sure she could’ve done without the incredibly unsexy teeth marks on her thigh.

“The hell you think you’re doin’, boy?!” A crass voice reverberates through his now aching head. He stands shakily, his hand against the wall his girl of the day leans against, and turns to see the top of a balding head.

“I’d think that was pretty obvious,” he grumbles to an incredibly pink man puffed up like a cat. This was the wrong thing to say, which obviously means it was exactly right.

“I’d think someone of your _status_ would value their life,” he hisses, his words dripping with venom. Two men flanking him stand at stiff attention, though a quick once-over tells him all he needs to know about their decorative leather armor. _Status._ What does this guy even know about status?

Miss Leather Thigh Highs scoffs and scurries away. Sylvain’s hand stays in its position on the now bare wall. He feels empty, like a hollow shell begging to be filled. He tilts his head back and puts on his best dickhead smile.

“You don’t know much, do you?”

Turns out Pink Man can get even pinker. Who knew!

“Men,” he snaps. He finds himself with two lances at his neck and it makes him feel _alive._ More alive than some ass, anyway.

“Is this really necessary?” he asks. He’s frozen where he stands, not really interested in impaling his jugular himself. The men hold steady. Pink Man raises an eyebrow.

“Manhandling my daughter certainly wasn’t necessary,” he breathes. Ah, one of these assholes. What kind of dick asserts ownership over his kid? Oh, wait. “Frivolous. Indulgent. _Disgusting._ Those of us with Pinestone Merchants prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed but, well, perhaps I’m feeling a bit indulgent, as well.”

Sylvain has never heard of these Pinestone Merchants.

“Sorry, I’ve never heard of the Pinkfaced Dickheads,” he says easily. The lances at his neck stay stone still and a vein on Pink Man’s forehead seems to twitch. Aw, how sweet, they don’t actually want to kill him. “So, you know, if you’ll excuse me —”

One of the lances presses against the side of his throat and he bolts, leaping over crates and skidding over sand he manages to lose Pink Man and the Lance Boys almost instantly. The adrenaline wears off just as fast and he finds himself a husk of the man he was mere moments ago.

“The red hair! Get him!”

Oh damn.

His heart restarts with a kick and a leap and he’s running through the crowded market square, weaving between bodies and carts and stalls while an indeterminate number of Lance Boys and mages, if the electric sting on the back of his leg is to be believed, chase after him yelling out commands and directions. He barks out a laugh. Fuck, it’s been awhile since he got in over his head this bad. A young girl screams and her mother pulls her back and he speeds by.

“Felix!” he shouts once he catches sight of a familiar head of dark hair. “Felix, run for it!”

Felix’s glare is as sharp as the tools trying to tear him down but he’s nothing if not quick. He falls into step next to Sylvain and tosses a look over his shoulder.

“What the _fuck_ did you _do?!”_ he snaps. Sylvain laughs again. He can’t help it.

“Ah, you know how merchants can be about their daughters!” He’s got a big stupid grin plastered all over his face. The wind in his hair is so fresh and lively and he wonders why he doesn’t pick fights like this more often.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says.

“Nope!”

“I should let them kill you.”

“Aw, and break our vow?”

Sylvain deserves that punch on the shoulder.

“Just fucking run, you idiot,” Felix pushes him toward an alley, “I’ll find you later. Just don’t get killed.”

Sylvain doesn’t like this whole leave Felix by himself to fend off at least six bodyguards.

“Nah, I’m staying right here,” he says as he tucks himself just out of sight, “Can’t have you dying on me, now.”

Felix rolls his eyes and unsheathes his sword.

“Sure. Whatever.”


	8. Attitude

Felix hasn’t even had time to find a messenger.

“Who the hell are you?” He crosses his arms and stands wide, sure to angle his hips so the handle of his sword is clearly visible. It gets the point across, but the crowd sneers instead of cowering.

“The attitude isn’t necessary,” the guy in front barks, “Shut your mouth and tell me where the ginger went.”

Because Felix is an asshole, he follows directions.

“Mm mm mmt mmm,” he says with his mouth shut.

Someone in the crowd snorts. Then they scream. Fitting that his dry sense of humor would get someone killed.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy.” He’s unarmed. “Where. Did. The. Ginger. Go.”

Felix shrugs.

“What are you, boy, blind?!”

Everybody else is armed. He can take ‘em.

“You know,” Felix sighs and unsheathes his sword, “I really wish he’d stop being a fucking moron.”

The merchant’s eyes follow Felix’s hand and then the tip of his blade. His eyes narrow and the small army around him raises their lances in unison. There’s a handful of mages crackling lightning in their palms. They’re all weak, but together he may actually get a chance to let loose.

“My company is not a company of murderers.” The merchant’s voice is low and dangerous. “Put that away before someone does something they’ll regret.”

“I don’t live with regrets,” Felix lies, “Step away and neither will you.”

“Whoa whoa whoa! Hah, I don’t think this is necessary!” Felix flinches at the sound of Sylvain’s voice. Fucking moron. “Hey, Felix? Let’s just be on our way, yeah?”

“Why did you do that?” Felix groans. Sylvain’s armor creaks against itself in a shrug.

“I didn’t think you should deal with this by yourself,” he says.

“You know, we wouldn’t be dealing with this at all if you weren’t such a —”

The merchant clears his throat. Felix glares.

“You’ve forgotten your position,” he hisses. He raises his hand to give the order to attack —

Felix shoves Sylvain back and his sword connects with a swinging lance. A flick of his wrist has the weapon clattering to the ground, leaving marks and dents in the dirt. He disarms the second soldier — guard? — just as easily. They look at their weaponless hands, up to Felix, and back to their boss. Felix isn’t in the business of killing people just because he can, and so he waits.

And Sylvain doesn’t.

The moment Sylvain steps in front of him several people leap forward, weapons out and magic crackling. Sylvain blocks them with his own lance and, with a sharp pang, Felix remembers his recent injury, grabs him by the plate on his back and runs.

“Whoa, Felix, what are you doing?!” Sylvain trips over his own feet. Felix pushes him back up and they run down an alley.

“I’m not killing someone because you hit on their daughter!” He snaps. A light dances behind Sylvain’s eyes. “And don’t look so pleased with yourself!”

“I don’t look pleased with myself!”

Felix ignores him. He grabs Sylvain’s hand and yanks him to the right, to the left, around a corner and —

“This way!” A voice calls. He sees they aren’t in the same decorative armor as the merchant and follows orders. Sylvain says something that doesn’t each through the pounding in his ears. He runs through a door held open by a woman he doesn’t recognize with long brown hair and finally, with the door slammed shut and bolted behind him, he drops Sylvain’s hand and places his own on his knees to catch his breath.

“— you mean?” Sylvain’s voice is the first thing he’s able to hear as the adrenaline starts dying down.

“Huh?” he asks.

“Hm?” Sylvain turns and looks at Felix, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Yeah, uh, sorry.”

_ “Huh?!” _

“He didn’t hear you, dude,” the woman says. Her words come out jerkily and Felix realizes she’s holding back laughter. “You’re gonna have to tell him again. Sorry.”

Felix forces himself to stand and look down at Sylvain the best he can.

“Ah, yeah,” Sylvain scratches the back of his head. His eyes go from round to, well, sad. “That’s, um. That’s her father.”

Felix grabs the nearest thing to him and throws it at Sylvain’s head. It’s a handkerchief. It floats down, entirely unimpressive. The girl can’t hold her laughter back anymore; she doubles over, clutching her stomach and wheezing.

“There’s nothing funny about this!” Felix knows a lie when he hears one. Oh well. “He could have been killed!”

“It’s  _ very _ funny,” she chokes out. He looks at Sylvain who has the good sense to look sheepish.

“It... It’s a little funny,” he says. Felix throws his hands up and scoffs. Fucking idiots. They make a lovely pair.

“Great, stay here and die,” he spits with a bit too much venom. He can see it seep into Sylvain’s veins and he groans. “No, nevermind, forget I said that.”

“You got it, Fe.” Sylvain isn’t going to forget that. Shit.

“As lovely as this is,” the girl has managed to get herself under control. Felix’s attention snaps to her. “You two will have plenty of time for that, uh, that, while you lay low and wait for my father’s merchants to leave.”

“That?” Sylvain laughs and it’s  _ fakefakefake,  _ “What do you mean, that?”

She gestures between the two of them. “You know, that.”

Felix’s face goes hot. Sylvain does a stupid fake laugh again and he desperately,  _ desperately _ hopes he doesn’t turn around.

“Ookay, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sylvain says and Felix hears the lie and his stomach lurches.  _ Sylvain knows. She knows. Everyone knows. _ “How long, uh, ‘til they leave? Do you think?”

He can almost hear her shrug. He can certainly hear Sylvain’s groan.

“So we’re just stuck here?” Fuck, he sounds pathetic. Pathetic and knowing. “We need to get a messenger out. . . Shit.”

“Well, that sucks,” she says, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all!” There’s a joking tilt to Sylvain’s voice and for some reason it’s comforting. If he knows and things stay normal then it’s not a problem and they can just pretend nobody knows until they die. Together. You know, like close friends. Oh no.

Sylvain and Girl seem to remain completely oblivious to Felix’s terrible, terrible revelation that he’s sinking into because it’s preferable to hearing _ that. _

“Hey, Fe, you with me, buddy?”

Felix realizes his eyes are shut and opens them all at once. The world is out of focus and it takes a minute for everything to come together. For him to realize his entire field of vision is freckles. He coughs and hurriedly turns his face away and into Sylvain’s hand. He turns the other way.

“What’s going on? I’ve never seen you panic like that.”

He scowls. “Nothing.” Sylvain’s thumb runs over his cheek and brushes over his ear and he tries to suppress the shudder, he really does. Sylvain must notice because he freezes too.

“Uh,” Felix doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see whatever look is on his face, “Sorry —”

“Fuck you,” Felix spits.

“Yeah. Uh, fuck me. Look.” Sylvain sighs. His breath ruffles Felix’s hair. “I fucked up, I know, but she — she’s really nice.”

Yeah, he fucking noticed.

“She said we can stay here until things die down. It’s an unused office, I guess? I don’t know.”

A pause that Felix doesn’t care to fill.

“There’s, uh, there’s a bit of food. It’s not... Shit, dude, I’m sorry.” He steps back and Felix can breathe again. “Sorry, I wasn’t — uh, anyway. There’s some food, water, I figure we can lay our bedrolls out on the floor and hope this isn’t some elaborate trap to get us murdered. Her father’s men work at all hours, she said not to make a break for it overnight, but he’ll get distracted within a few days and we should be able to sneak off no problem.”

Thoughts and words are returning to Felix. 

“We can travel toward the next town, if we go further into Charon toward Galatea we shouldn’t find trouble.”

Thoughts and words are returning really, really fast.

“I figure w —”

Felix grabs him by his stupid fur collar and holds him in place, their noses a hair’s width apart.

“You figure  _ what, _ Sylvain?” he hisses. “You figure we’ll stay in this room your little girlfriend found, eat scraps for three days, pledge our lives to one another again, and run off just for you to act like an ass again?”

“Look, I swear, Felix, that’s it for me. I’m not putting you through that again.”

“Tell that to someone who believes your lies.” He pushes Sylvain back and crosses his arms. “You go back to Gautier, or wait for Ingrid and Ashe in Galatea. I’m going out on my own.”

“Felix —”

“You’re the one they’re looking for, right? I’m perfectly safe. Maybe if I tell them where you’re hiding they’ll give me a bit of gold.” Felix collapses to the floor and crosses his legs. Fuck, he’s tired. “Be better than this shit.”

Sylvain sits, too. He looks troubled; deep in thought. A bit pink. Felix watches him consider his words and quickly looks away when their eyes meet.

“It won’t happen again,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I — I was dealing with something. I wanted to forget about it. It won’t happen again.”

Felix scoffs. “What the hell were you dealing with that you thought you’d find up someone’s skirt?”

Sylvain laughs weakly. “Say, Fe?”

Felix grunts in confirmation, both that he’s heard and that he knows damn well he’s changing the topic.

“I uh, I have a question. You can kill me, you know, if it makes you mad.”

His eyes meet Sylvain’s. Felix hasn’t seen him this nervous in a long, long time.

“If it’ll make me that mad,” he says bluntly, “Why the fuck would you ask it?”

“It’s important,” he insists. “It’s really important.”

Children scream outside and the soft sound of their running footsteps echoes dully through the near-empty room. Felix, looking for literally anything else to focus on, starts removing supplies from his bag and laying out his bedroll. Sylvain does the same.

“It’s about, um, fuck this is probably stupid,” Sylvain mutters. Felix has to strain to hear him. “I haven’t thought much about the words.”

“Spit it out.” Felix lays on his bedroll and stares at the peeling ceiling and not at Sylvain. Definitely not at Sylvain who lays down directly next to him instead of literally anywhere else in the room.

Okay, fine, he looks at Sylvain. He’s wearing a soft, endearing expression that Felix is fairly sure he couldn’t possibly wear as a mask. He swallows.

“I think you should know —”

The door bursts open and they both jump for their weapons. It shuts just as quickly and, leaning against it heaving for air, is Girl. The girl from before who got them into this safe haven and, it seems, will be getting them back out.

“You’ve got to be fucking —” Felix starts. Girl cuts him off.

“You have to leave,” she forces out between breaths, “You have to go.  _ Now.  _ I’m fleeing with my father. Get your shit and run.”

And she’s gone. The door slams shut behind her and Felix and Sylvain are left blinking in confusion.

“What —” Felix shoves his hand over Sylvain’s mouth before he can make another sound and, in the quiet, he listens.  _ Really listens. _

Sylvain licks his hand. He smacks him.

_ “Shut the hell up,” _ he hisses.

By some miracle or by fate, Sylvain shuts the hell up and Felix can cut through the crap and hear fighting, yelling, running. He hears a strong voice cut above everything else and his stomach sinks.

“Get your shit.” He scrambles to his feet and hastily throws his things in his bag. Sylvain follows suit.

“What? What is it?” he asks.

“Just hurry the fuck up, come on, we have to go.”

Sylvain is barely strapping his bag shut when Felix loses patience and grabs him by the arm and through the door. The air smells heavy, burnt. The night sky is glowing an unnatural red and sparks and embers float toward the stars.

“Felix. . .” Sylvain whines. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, “You just healed from your last fight. I’m not letting you jump in this one.”

The look on Sylvain’s face mingles with relief and shock. Ugh. He pushes him down the street, away from the noise, toward where several families can be seen huddled around the edge of town.

“This is General Bergliez!” An authoritative voice carries through the commotion. At the edges of his memory Felix grasps at Caspar’s brother. “This town is under Empire rule. Lay down your weapons.”

_ “Fucking go. Fucking go!!” _

Sylvain seems to understand the severity of the situation, at the very least. He shakes Felix’s hand off his arm and grabs it with his own hand and they run. They just fucking run.


End file.
